


Branded

by garrisonbabe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Modification, Claiming, Dominant/Top Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Ownership, Pain, Possessive Behavior, Rituals, Soul Bond, Submissive/Bottom Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garrisonbabe/pseuds/garrisonbabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael mocked Castiel, telling him he'd never get Dean the way he truly wanted. No matter the mark on Dean's soul, he'd never get him the way the archangel could take him. Dean finds a ritual that fixes that and a few other issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Binding](https://archiveofourown.org/works/86306) by [tiptoe39](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39). 



> Own nothing, Kripke takes all.
> 
> So, I'm more than just a little infatuated with Dean being branded. This is going to have a second chapter from Cas' point of view and probably a few more works in relation to this whole concept. I like it bunches. Let me know what you think! Enjoy!

Dean looked at the book in his hands again, brows knitting together as he tried to understand what the words were saying. It looked like a way to keep Dean from being used a vessel for Michael. Though the words weren’t exactly straight-forward. There were pages all around the one where the ritual was written saying how dangerous it was and when he’d checked the other five books that might have something on it they confirmed it, though none of the others actually listed it. Whatever this ritual was, it was big-time and hadn’t been used in thousands of years. So all in all it sounded like a safe bet.

_A mark of claim on the flesh of the soul with holy fire and the vessel is no more_

Dean hummed and rubbed his eyes. Bobby was asleep and Sam was upstairs doing… something. He closed the kitchen doors and prepared to call Cas. He didn’t want to wake Bobby up with the conversation and he really didn’t want anyone getting their hopes up over it. He needed confirmation first.

“Hey, Cas, if you could get over here quietly, I’m in the kitchen at Bobby’s, that’d be great. I need to ask you something.” He waited and heard the familiar wing beats seconds later, a strong breeze rustling the pages of the book.

“Hello, Dean.” Dean snorted, somehow with the combination of tired and hopeful he was the angel’s greeting was funny. He wasn’t really in a position to question it.

“Hey, Cas.” He picked up the book and thrust it at Castiel, waiting for him to take it and read it. His eyes went wide and he looked between Dean and the book several times before closing it and placing it on the table.

“Dean, I’m going to assume you don’t understand what that ritual entails.” Castiel was standing too close, like he always did. Recently it hadn’t been bothering him as much, though. It may or may not have had something to do with a drunken kiss leading to a sober talk and sober sex, but he was once again not in a position to question things.

“Uh, it said the ‘vessel is no more’ so I’m going to assume that it… entails making it so Michael can’t wear my ass.” He crossed his arms and looked down his nose at the angel, half expecting Cas to roll his eyes with the way his shoulders drooped and his head tilted.

Instead he narrowed his eyes and huffed indignantly. Because that was angelic behavior. “Dean, that ritual is…” Castiel sighed and sat down, Dean sitting across from him. “You’re correct in your assumption that it would make you an unsuitable vessel for Michael.” Dean was about to speak but Castiel held up his hand. “But there’s more to it. The mark of ‘claim on the flesh of the soul’ that it mentioned is very literal. What you found is a ritual sacrifice, Dean.”

Dean slumped and sighed. “Damn, much as I don’t want to be Mikey’s meat-suit, I’d rather save the dying for a last resort.”

Castiel tilted his head. “You misunderstand me.” The angel looked vaguely uncomfortable before speaking again. “I’d rather have this conversation in private.”

Before Dean could protest Castiel flew them to the panic room and shut the door with a wave of his hand. Dean glared at him. “We couldn’t have walked? Seriously, you’re gonna have to start jogging or you’ll get fat.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes again and ignored Dean’s remark, pulling the chair away from the desk at the side of the room to set it up next to the cot. Dean sat astride the cot and waited for Cas to explain. “The ritual you’ve found requires another angel to brand their name onto your skin, in Enochian, along with many other sigils and symbols. Then they would carve their name into your bones and lastly would plunge their hand into your body to brand your soul.”

“Wait… so how’s that a sacrifice?”

“Because the human involved is then considered property of said angel. If the human was the vessel of another angel, they can no longer be inhabited by anyone but the angel who owns them. They sacrifice all that they are to the will of the angel.” Castiel squinted up at the fan whirring above them. He looked pained and uncomfortable with the entire topic of conversation.

“Whoa, whoa, wait. Hold on a minute.” Dean chuckled nervously and waited for Cas to look at him. “So if say, you, performed this ritual on me, I couldn’t be a vessel for Michael because I’d be a vessel for you?” Castiel nodded, his lips forming a tight line while that was as tense as his entire body. “How’s that work?”

“Normally vessels are from a certain bloodline. Jimmy Novak’s bloodline dates back to a prophet, yours and Sam’s dates back to Cain and Abel. It’s spectacularly impossible to take a vessel from someone not of the proper bloodline. It destroys them entirely, their body and their soul.” Cas was making a point of looking anywhere but at Dean. “But in the case of this ritual, a claim so thorough is laid that the bloodline is of no consequence. It transforms the body and soul of the human to accommodate the angel.”

“But, would you have to take me as a vessel? Could you just stay in Jimmy Novak once it was all done?”

Castiel’s eyes snapped back to Dean’s face, the muscles of his face twitching to remain impassive and calm. “Dean you can’t be serious.”

“Yeah, I can, Cas. Anything we can do to keep the winged dick brigade from using me and my brother.” Castiel’s face faltered for just a moment and Dean didn’t need more than a second to realize why Cas was so avoidant and tense. “Cas, is this… is this turning you on?”

Castiel looked guilty, sitting straighter with his hands planted firmly on top of his thighs. “The… what you are suggesting is…” The angel seemed at a loss for words, his eyes shifting all over the room momentarily while he tried to think. He rubbed the back of his neck, much like he had when Dean guessed he was a virgin and looked at Dean again. When he resumed speaking his voice was even, restrained. “I’ve already branded your soul. The mark on your shoulder is evidence of it. It was something rarely done and there was speculation as to why I did it. To be honest it was an accident, but it’s irreversible. There’s a claim laid on your soul, by me and when Michael caught wind of it he began to mock me for it. As you can imagine that was only mildly humiliating.” Dean wanted to smirk and congratulate Castiel on his firm understanding of sarcasm. “He explained that you were his vessel and that he was the only one who could truly claim you.”

“Fucking dick.” Yet another reason for Dean not to say yes. “So you played jealous angel boyfriend and Mikey what, got threatened?”

“No, annoyed. I’m hardly a threat to an archangel. The brand on your soul was even briefly construed as disrespect, no matter if it was an accident.” Cas sighed and leaned back in his chair a little. “It had always bothered me on some level, Michael insulting and invalidating my claim, but it’s been worse since the change in our relationship.” _Since I truly wanted to claim you as mine_ went unsaid, but was implied in Castiel’s tone.

Dean had always thought of himself as being more dominant, but he couldn’t deny the appeal of Castiel claiming him like the ritual mentioned. It was kind of dizzying to think about the sheer power Cas had to be able to literally lay a claim on his soul. He realized the amount of trust he was giving the rebel angel, but couldn’t think of anyone else he’d want to trust like that. There was also the added bonus of giving Heaven a big middle finger that made it seem like a good idea the more thought about it. It was a combination of vindication for Cas and problem solving for Team Free Will. “So, d’you wanna do it?”

Castiel’s eyes widened in shock, but Dean could already see them darkening too, his pupils expanding. “Dean, the ritual is excruciating and very arduous. It would likely take days to complete and—“

“And I was in Hell for forty years, being tortured for thirty. Unless you plan on cutting out my stomach and emptying it onto my face, I don’t think we have much to worry about.” Dean adopted a cocky smirk and leered at the angel sitting near him. “Well? You wanna claim me, Cas?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ritual begins

Castiel knew Dean couldn’t see the amount of power he was giving him, the implications of letting Castiel brand him again and again and to carve into his bones. He felt badly that he would scar Dean and injure him, but it was Dean’s choice and he’d do everything he could to ease the pain. At least the mark on his soul was already complete. That was by far the most torturous part of the ritual as a whole.

He knew he shouldn’t be so thrilled that any time Dean removed his shirt everyone would see Castiel’s name written on his skin. He shouldn’t have been so excited that he would literally own Dean. But as Dean had said, he rebelled and things such as iniquity and pride were perks. There may have also been a slight bit of satisfaction that Dean was submitting to him and not Michael. As far as compensation for being cast out went, it was more than sufficient.

Dean’s soul being tied to his grace could even have interesting side-effects. He’d heard about souls from similar rituals being a constant source of power. Unlike a soul that was absorbed it wouldn’t fade, it was still alive. His own power could be stabilized, not what it once was, but not constantly dwindling as it had been. There may have been bragging rights about it being the soul of the Righteous Man, but that was in the same way that there were bragging rights involved with being in the eye of a hurricane. Michael would be furious, likely wanting to smite Castiel. He couldn’t truly find it within himself to care, though.

He’d told Sam and Bobby to go somewhere for a few days, to find an easy hunt or take a vacation. Meanwhile he and Dean were set up in the panic room, Dean completely naked and fidgeting while Castiel prepared a fire and iron brands.

“Dean, you can back out of this now if you’re having second thoughts.” _Please don’t be._ “Once the branding starts it will be too late.”

Dean sighed and took his place on the cot, which had been afforded a more comfortable mattress for the occasion. He lay on his stomach, breathing deeply. “It’s fine, Cas, let’s just get going.”

Castiel calmed himself and warmed the first brand in the fire until it was red-hot. The first set of brands would be all seven letters of his name straight down Dean’s spine. He couldn’t heal Dean during the process, then the burns wouldn’t scar properly and the entire ritual would be pointless. He could try to relieve some of Dean’s pain, but all in all the ritual promised to test them both.

He lifted the twisted metal from the fire and held it just above Dean’s back, high between his shoulder blades. Without warning he pressed it firmly to Dean’s skin. He ignored the pained cry or the way Dean’s fingers curled into his palms to try and fight off something he’d volunteered for. The skin singed, sizzling and hissing with small amounts of blood welling up at the edges. He pulled the brand away, chunks of skin being torn off and taken with it. He considered whether he should have chosen a smoother piece of iron, but with his grace stretched thin as it was, any he used would have likely turned jagged and shearing regardless.

Dean groaned and buried his face further into his pillow. He mumbled something that sounded vaguely like, “should have brought whiskey.”

Three more letters were on his skin before Dean ceased screaming, the pain whiting out his senses and leaving him doing nothing more than panting and whimpering. His skin was turning pallid, sweat rolling down the back of his neck. Nausea should have been kicking in, his stomach likely heaving any time the air shifted. Castiel sighed and worked diligently and efficiently through the final three. Once they were done he leaned over to inspect his work. The skin was raw, broken open and bleeding with black charring in spots. He knew the pain Dean had gone through, the pain he was still going to go through and part of him felt undeserving of it.

Dean was a hero, a selfless man with more strength than most could fathom and Castiel loved him above all else. He had no doubt he’d slaughter his way across the planet if he needed to, all for Dean. Yet here he was, the Righteous Man, the Michael-sword and his leader. He was allowing—no _asking_ —Castiel to own him. What had the broken, traitorous, rebel angel done to deserve such trust?

He sat down and rubbed the unbroken skin around the garish marks, flooding them with cold to try and quell the blazing nerves. It was still an exciting thing to be doing, though. As much as he wanted to be guilty enough recoil from what Dean asked, he couldn’t. He’d do anything for Dean and if Dean wanted to trust him with his soul, he would cherish it more ferociously than he did his own grace.

Castiel’s fingers found the vertebrae between the letters of his name and began inscribing there as well. Dean barely stirred, trying to take steady, even breaths. In the spinal cord itself he was to write his name again as well as ancient sigils marking ownership and possession. When he was finished with Dean’s spine he dug the tips of his fingers into soft, light brown hair. On Dean’s skull he would write _through this binding contract it has been made so that Dean Winchester is owned and protected by Castiel – Angel of Thursday – Soldier of our Lord._ Small whimpers left the hunter's throat, his face stuck in a pained expression. It wasn't more than a few seconds after Castiel finished the script that Dean fell unconscious. The first set of carvings and brands was done and Castiel felt like he needed a drink. He knew for sure Dean would when he eventually pulled himself out of his pain-induced coma.

—

Dean breathed heavily and tried not to vomit when he woke up. He didn’t even want to contemplate moving, his back felt like it was very literally on fire and he had the worst migraine he could ever remember. Even a fifth of Jack and a pissed off demon slamming his head into a gravestone hadn’t been quite so bad.

“Cas?” He needed something, anything to make it hurt a little less.

There were fingers ghosting across his skin, a burst of cold shocking across wherever they touched that made him sigh. “There isn’t much I can do for your head, I’m sorry.”

“Nah, brought it on myself, right?” He laughed weakly and settled further into the cot. It would be worth it, more than, so he could deal with whatever shit he had to for a few days. Pain wasn’t forever and after a short while he’d be able to breathe without feeling like his skin was peeling off. This was Cas, he owed the guy everything, so that’s what he’d give.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel can't wait to stake his claim for when Dean's awake.

Dean groaned and shifted in the sheets of his bed. His back didn’t hurt anymore, so that was a relief. He stretched and rolled over, leaning up on his elbows. The hotel room was bright and immaculately clean.

“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” He looked around for any sign of Cas, finding the angel standing against the back wall completely naked.

He smirked and nodded before stalking up to the bed. There was a look in his eyes Dean hadn’t seen before, it was dark and fierce. He wasn’t ashamed to say it scared him a little. Castiel crawled onto the bed, moving languidly and gracefully as he pushed Dean back down and ran his hands over every inch of skin he could find. His lips found Dean’s jaw, kissing softly as they trailed up to his ear. “You have nothing to fear from me, Dean.”

One of Cas’ hands began teasing his cock and he gasped, liking where his dream was headed. “This because of the brands?”

Cas chuckled, the sound coming out rougher than Dean could ever remember hearing it. “This is because you’re mine, Dean.”

Castiel lifted up and flipped him over onto his stomach before he could react. Warm, dry lips were kissing all over his shoulders and neck. Dean was hardening against the mattress, the sheets silky against his skin and warm like they’d just come from the dryer. He could feel Castiel rubbing against the crack of his ass, pressing insistently and lewdly against him. Cas’ lips moved lower, his tongue snaking out between kisses. He reached the first mark on Dean’s back, causing him to gasp at the contact. The angel’s tongue deftly traced every line of the first letter. The skin beneath his touch was so cold it felt like it was burning, white hot and sharp but not painful in the slightest.

His fingers were coated in lube, from where Dean had no idea, and he was gently pressing in with one digit. Dean hummed and opened his legs wider in accordance with the angel’s movements. He could feel Castiel’s lips curling against his skin and his own stretched into a matching grin. His body was relaxing quickly, relenting to the prodding and stroking of Cas’ finger. He was settled between Dean’s legs, still bent over him as he kissed his way down his human’s body.

Castiel was humming against him, almost purring as he continued to tongue the marks on Dean’s back. His fingers stroked insistently on Dean’s prostate, a soft teasing that lit his nerves and skin. Dean groaned, burying his face in his pillow as he fucked himself back onto Cas’ finger. He was loosened quickly and a second finger was added, turning and twisting inside him in a way that was as pleasurable as it was torturous. The entire time Cas kissed and played with the brands, lavishing them with wet kisses and licks. Dean could scarcely tell if it was his sweat or Cas’ spit coating the skin over his spine.

The angel only grew more teasing, more wicked when he began working that second finger through Dean’s body. He’d brush over his prostate then chase just around it, causing Dean to writhe and squirm in search of the fiery touch he craved so desperately. He didn’t know Cas could do this, be so teasing and downright sinful.

Cas’ mouth was right next to his ear, a low laugh slipping against his senses. “There’s much you still don’t know, Dean.”

Dean moaned and shifted almost uncomfortably in the sheets. He was caught between running away from the intense sensations wreaking havoc on his system and pushing back to beg for more. Castiel eased a third finger in and didn’t bother with teasing after that. Every brush inside him was over the right spot, the pleasure boiling and building as he rocked his hips to seek friction from the sheets and relief from his angel. He expected Cas to stop, to plunge into him and fuck him raw. Instead he kept stroking, kept letting Dean rut against the mattress.

“Cas, please. Need more of you.” He panted and didn’t even care that he was begging.

Castiel hummed and licked his skin, sucking a slurping hickey into his shoulder. His fingers left Dean’s body and were quickly replaced by his cock, thick and achingly hard. Dean was caged in Cas’ arms and yanked up to his knees, brought flush against Cas’ chest. He was surprised to find a huge mirror in place of a headboard on the back wall. It was obscene and dirty but outrageously sexy, being able to see the base of Cas’ shaft as the rest disappeared into him between his thighs. His own dick was swollen, flushing red and curving back toward his abdomen as Castiel began thrusting, causing it to bob and smack against him.

Castiel was lost in it all, his eyes closed, lips parted but still managing a smile as he panted and moaned. His arms hugged Dean close, pulling his body back to meet every forward thrust. Dean watched the scene before him, his entire body buzzing. He idly reached down to stroke himself but Cas caught his wrist before he strayed too close.

His eyes opened and met Dean’s, the normal sight of dark blue that made him seem human entirely gone. The angel’s eyes glowed brilliant white, the veins under his vessel’s skin pulsing and showing through like glow-sticks under thin fabric. He trapped Dean’s wrists in one hand, holding them against his chest in a constricting grip.

They stared at each other, the moans and desperate noises growing louder as Castiel began to thrust harder. His face was shifting from its pleasured, floating expression to something more animalistic. His mouth slammed shut, teeth clicking in Dean’s ear. If Dean hadn’t been looking directly at Cas he’d have sworn the dark growl he heard came from somewhere— _something_ else. The chest that pressed so tight against his back rubbed the brands, scratching them pleasurably like a long-ignored bug bite.

Dean whimpered, his eyes finally closing no matter how much he wanted them to remain open. His body was being plundered, rocked into violently and used and he knew somewhere that he shouldn’t like it so much. Castiel’s free hand rubbed appreciatively over his abdomen.

“Open your eyes, Dean.” He did, the glowing white still present and flaring violently on a particularly rough buck of the angel’s hips. “You’re marked, you know, you’re mine. This skin here,” Cas’ nails drug across his midsection, angry welts rising in their wake, “this skin will bear my name, just as your back does. I’ll write my claim all over your skin. No matter where or when you go, you’ll be mine.”

Dean was pliant under Castiel’s touch, leaning into him weakly to try and catch every rough thrust. In the mirror he could see his and Cas’ skin, slick with sweat. He could see Cas mouthing at his neck, biting and pulling on his skin and when Cas pulled his face over for a kiss he glanced to their reflection. It had never occurred to him before just how filthy and raw a kiss like that looked. The small hitches of Castiel’s hips littered the air with smacks from their skin and squeaks from the mattress.

He dared to look down again, to where they were joined. He drank in the sight of Castiel pulling out, skin slick with lube and flushed dark with blood, the veins glowing faintly as he lost control over himself and snapped his hips desperately. It pushed him even closer to the brink, his cock and balls throbbing as he got closer and closer to coming.

A chuckle shook the air around his ear. “Yes, come for me, Dean. Give me what’s mine.”

Cas’ hand gripped his hip tightly, yanking him back to meet thrusts that grew more frantic with each passing second. Small tendrils of sensation were tickling his balls and shaft, like little fingers caressing with awed reverence. He knew it was Castiel and he couldn’t resist even if he’d wanted to.

Dean threw his head back to rest on Cas’ shoulder, his body falling even further into the angel as he moaned hoarsely, bordering on a shout. He panted as Castiel rode him through his orgasm, quickly turning into something almost like sobbing and with one final, rough thrust one sentence was screamed painfully loud into his head: _The righteous man is mine!_

Dean woke with a start, finding himself propped up on soft pillows, his back throbbing as he arched up and came across his stomach. He moaned loudly, unaware of anything around him as his senses dulled with his orgasm. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the downy softness behind him, finding it to be unnaturally cool and comforting. After he settled and the room stopped spinning he opened his eyes, finding that Cas was sitting at the end of the cot, legs crossed and smiling at him softly.

“I take it you enjoyed your dream?” His voice was soft and calm, betraying nothing of the snarling animal mess that fucked him so thoroughly.

Dean snorted and looked at the mess on his stomach. “What do you think?”

Castiel’s smile widened slightly, pride coloring his eyes brightly. “I think we should move on to your arms today. I’m going to brand your shoulders and carve more of your bones. Are you ready?”

Dean smirked. “You pay me another visit like the last one and I’ll be ready to do any damn thing you want, sweetheart.”

Cas blushed and his smile turned sheepish. He cleared his throat and stood, glancing at his groin with a slight frown. “I think I got carried away. I’ll return shortly with a towel for you. But first, I need to change.”

Dean laughed and breathed deeply, relaxing in anticipation of what was to come.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel started with carving into Dean’s shoulders, he’d save the brands for last this session. The bones under his skin were littered with Enochian letters and symbols. His right shoulder was a declaration of capitulation and his left shoulder and upper arm were covered in sigils that marked Castiel’s journey into Hell. It spoke of him entering through one of the lower gates, of his garrison being cut into from their first steps. A map of his path wound down the bone, the gates going deeper and deeper into the Pit and the battles becoming more intense. The last sigils, just above his elbow, detailed Castiel’s sprint through the lowest regions of Alistair’s chambers. His wings had been burnt and demons had torn out chunks of feathers, much of the initial team that entered was dead or had heeded an order to retreat. Castiel had refused. He’d never failed a mission in his life and he wasn’t going to start when the stakes were so high.

Then he saw the soul of the Righteous Man and reached out to it with his entirety. He landed next to Dean and grabbed his shoulder, blessing him on instinct alone. It had purged his soul of much of the taint of Hell, though the pain would remain. That was when the brand on his soul was formed, a piece of Castiel’s grace left behind to claim him.

Dean groaned as Cas finished the last intricate lines of the final sigil. “Fuck, you can’t take the pain away or put me to sleep?”

“No, doing so would invalidate the ritual. It would be the same as getting you drunk and convincing you to have sex when you otherwise wouldn’t.”

“So, what, the ritual knows if you use your mojo and won’t let you soul-rape me?” Dean’s eye brows were crawling half-way to his forehead in disbelief.

Castiel huffed a small laugh, lips turning up in a small smirk. “That is… an unusual description, but accurate. Magic isn’t always mindless, Dean. This ritual is a sacrifice, you have to be cognizant of everything happening. If you pass out, it has to be without interference on my part.”

Dean grunted his acknowledgment, knowing full well just what he’d be feeling in the next few minutes. Cas got up from his chair next to the cot and went to the small bullet forge where he’d been heating another set of iron brands.

Both shoulders would be branded, including the mark on Dean’s left. All five fingertips of Cas’ mark would have a sigil placed on them, as well as two within the palm. These were designed to begin the process of forging Dean into a new sword, one for Castiel to wield.

He could see Dean eyeing the twisted, hot metal as it came closer. The muscles of his jaw were bulging as he gritted his teeth in preparation. The first brand was a sigil to mark him as Castiel’s beloved, the most precious thing to him, just as any vessel would be. Normally the ritual was more of a business transaction, take the sword, break the sword, remake the sword. Dean wasn’t just a body, or even just a soul. He was something else entirely and he demanded a higher level of respect paid as a result.

The metal bit into his skin just above the ball joint, sizzling and popping. Any noise from the contact was quickly overshadowed by Dean’s pained shout. It was almost like a bark, short and rough and Castiel felt guilty for it, just as he did any time Dean was injured. He pulled the brand away, looking into another bloody burn. An odd twinge of emotion shot through him as he looked at the sigil. _Belovèd._ The only one angels would call beloved was their father. He didn’t dare think of the implications of using it on Dean in such a way.

The metal twisted, reforming into another mark. Dean panted roughly, trying to calm himself. Cas pushed into his mind enough to read his emotions. The regret he feared he’d find wasn’t there, neither was the fear or anything resembling his flashbacks to Hell. There was determination, though, and Castiel felt his own rise to meet Dean’s. It had to be done and he wouldn’t let something as trivial as pain stop it. Especially if his human wouldn’t.

Black turned to orange and too soon the metal was ready again. Castiel lifted it, examining it closely before walking back to Dean. He stood behind him, pushing him away from the mound of pillows he’d provided him with. They’d need cleaned soon, blood coated them in a rather worrying way. Someone would likely think a murder had occurred.

Dean took a deep breath, bracing himself again as a new mark was scarred onto him. This one was another that was customized, different from any who’d performed the same ritual in the past.

Every angel had a corresponding star and a name that only they and their father knew. It wasn’t a name that could be spoken, it was more akin to a signature or a thumbprint. This is what would be singed into Dean’s right shoulder blade. It was his signature as well as the location of his star. It was the ultimate form of ownership and as such required an extra step. He’d not told Dean about it, given his distaste for blood since Ruby and Sam.

Castiel willed his palm to split open, spilling over Dean’s skin in the place he was to be marked. Dean barely had a second to turn his head before the searing metal was pushed to his skin. He leaned forward, gritting his teeth so not to scream himself hoarse. He went too far and cracked open scabs that had formed over the marks on his back. His eyes were tearing and he sobbed in pain, his nails biting into his skin as he gripped his forearms roughly. Castiel tore the iron away from his skin, wincing as Dean let loose another yowl. He reformed the metal to another shape and set it down to heat up.

He knelt beside Dean on the floor, gently guiding his face over with a hand on his jaw. His skin was flushed and covered in sweat, he looked like he’d be ill.

“Dean, we can take a break—“

“No.” He shook his head, sweat shifting across his skin. “No, let’s get this over with.”

Castiel sighed and nodded, he understood the sentiment well. He pressed a kiss to Dean’s shoulder, trying to soothe the sharp burn moving through him. Dean whimpered and sat up straighter, breathing heavily.

The third sigil was ready and Castiel hesitated, taking another chance to read Dean’s emotions. He was still set on completing the ritual. _Let no one in Heaven or Hell call the Righteous Man weak._ He grabbed the brand, the metal feeling heavier in his hand than it had any right to, and moved back to stand in front of Dean. The third and final sigil on his right shoulder was one of many designed to nullify his bloodline. It was the first step of remaking his body.

Dean closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Castiel pressed the metal to his skin on the exhale. Just as before Dean screamed and took the punishment. After a moment the brand was removed, reshaped and returned to the fire. The air of the panic room smelled putrid, burning flesh hanging thickly along with the smell of blood and sweat. Castiel’s blood on Dean’s shoulder was drying, turning a sickly brown as it began to flake. It stained his skin darkly.

“What do you normally use on burns?” Castiel thought about ice, but wanted to confirm it. He didn’t want to harm Dean any more than he already was.

Dean took a steadying breath and cleared his throat. “Uh, some ice would be good. Wrap in a towel or two or maybe some cold water.”

Castiel nodded and walked to the door of the panic room, stopping just a moment to turn and look at Dean. The hunter stared at him, looking confused. He turned around fully and looked at Dean more closely, taking in the sheen of sweat on his skin and the twitching of his muscles. It hit him in way it hadn’t before that in a few short days all of that skin would adorned with burns that would heal and litter his skin with old and powerful words of the angel's making. His head tilted as he mentally pictured his name written across dean’s stomach. A shameful spark of desire snapped at him and he forced himself to walk back over to Dean, who looked up at him with concern. _I’ve spent the past two days mutilating your skin and you’re still concerned for me?_

“You okay, Cas?”

The angel couldn’t help the soft laugh that shook his chest and made him shake his head. He touched Dean’s shoulder, cooling the skin, before he walked upstairs to get the ice and a small cup of cool water.

—

Dean stared at Cas’ back as he walked away. Apparently the guy was all right, all things considered. His back and shoulder were in so much pain they were almost numb. The sensations bled together and folded over him blindingly. He’d deal with it, though. The payoff was always on his mind. Michael couldn’t use him, Heaven couldn’t use him, only Cas. He trusted Cas. Loved him, even if he’d yet to actually say it.

He could feel blood running down his back from where the skin cracked as he’d squirmed. The pillows behind him were filthy, he didn’t need to look at them to know it. The burning only intensified when he leaned back onto them. He ground his teeth, groaning and shivering as he tried to ignore it.

Cas was walking back, a soaking wet rag filled with ice in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. Dean wanted to run up and kiss him. However that would have required moving which was just not an option. The angel pulled the chair back over wordlessly, holding the rag in the air above him and squeezing to let water trickle out over his skin. Dean sighed, the freezing touch almost painful but still wonderful in comparison to before.

He was pulled to sit back up gently by his left shoulder as Cas went to work on his back. Water dripped down, tickling his skin and feeling fucking fantastic. After a few minutes he was feeling better and the ice was all but gone, the worn cotton dishrag a sopping mess at their feet. Cas kissed his forehead and he only felt a little weird before his skin was cooled further, like a strong wind washing over him.

The rag and empty mug were put back and soon the dread began creeping back in. Just because he signed up for it didn’t mean he had to like it.

—

Castiel rolled up his sleeves, having taken off the suit jacket and overcoat before the ritual started, and retrieved the over-heated iron. This symbol was smaller than the ones before, meant to cover the pad of the thumb on his mark. It was an anchor, tying Dean’s soul more closely to his body through the handprint. Dean was tensing again and Castiel wondered if this set would hurt more than the ones before because of their location.

He approached slowly, closing his eyes to steel himself before thrusting the brand forward like a sword to an opponent’s flesh. The act wasn’t nearly as satisfying. Dean cursed and tried not to squirm and agitate his abused skin. When he pulled the metal back he could see the faint glow of Dean’s soul through the garish wound. Only four more fingers and two on the palm left.

Dean made it through three more before he once again slumped over into consciousness, too exhausted by the process and the strain on his body and spirit. Castiel nearly cried with relief. If Dean was asleep then he didn’t have to hear him scream, see him squirming and trying to keep it together. The anchors were working perfectly, and he looked forward to when they were healed so he could touch them. His mark was always sensitive and the first time he and Dean made love, shortly after his trip to 2014, he could feel his soul pulsing below the surface. He wondered how much stronger it would be now.

The first brand for the palm was ready, the same one that he’d put on the back of Dean’s right shoulder. His blood fell thickly over Dean’s skin and the smell it created as it burned was almost worse than Dean’s blood by itself. The fingertip sigils flared as the mark was finalized. They were being bound together.

Castiel wondered briefly if it was possible to hate a color, because he was beginning to dislike the orange glow of hot iron. The second mark symbolized Jimmy Novak’s bloodline, the bloodline of all of Castiel’s vessels. He positioned it just beside his name and pressed in firmly. Dean stirred, but didn’t wake, grimacing as he sat unaware of the outside world. Once finished, Castiel put the iron back in the flames to burn away leftover flesh. He then waved the fire out and sat beside Dean as he slept. His eyes moved rapidly beneath his lids and Castiel knew he would again visit Dean in his dreams.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel pays Dean another visit in dream land

Dean opened his eyes and blinked blearily, the hotel room was dark. He sat upright in the bed, heavy silk sheets falling from his frame even as their warmth clung to his skin. It was the same room from last time, but with some differences. Last time the walls had been white, or at least light enough they looked it with the bright made-to-look-like-sunlight bulbs flooding the room. Now they were dark blue, the normal semi-gloss replaced with a dull matte finish.

Candles were arranged around the room instead of the lights from before, enough of them that if he were awake and in a real room he’d question for his safety. The small flames flickered from all directions, some of them sitting on pillars of wax that were tall and elegant, others were just tea lights. The holders ranged from ones he’d seen in churches — and how appropriate was _that_ — to small saucers that could have been found in antique shops.

He looked around the dark room, the angel nowhere to be found. The pain from when he was conscious had disappeared, just like before. When he turned to check for a mirror on the back wall he saw a sturdy wooden headboard. It was cold when he scooted back to rest against it, the brands along his spine and on the back of his right shoulder throbbing in a way that made him want to recoil. The cold was desolate, not the comforting touch Cas had provided.

Speaking of, “Cas?” His voice was softer than he’d expected it to be, but at least it wasn’t hoarse from screaming in agony.

A weight dipped the end of the mattress, his head snapping in that direction. It took a moment, but his eyes adjusted to the unmistakable form of Cas sitting, naked, at his feet. “Apologies, I wanted to give you some time to adjust to the change in scenery.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that? I mean, it’s cool or whatever but, why?” Cas was covered in shadows, his skin tinged orange in spots where the flame illuminated him.

The angel smiled softly. “I enjoy the quiet of darkness, it’s more intimate.”

Dean nodded, not sure what to say. Even in the low light he caught Cas’ eyes, the blue glinting inhumanly because of the candles. It was different than in the brothel, the hazy darkness there had filled that blue with panic. Here Castiel was relaxed, at ease. He looked happy.

“You know, you don’t have to do this for me, Cas.” The other man moved, crawling forward until he was seated comfortably in Dean’s lap, Dean’s hands instinctually going to his hips. It was just skin on skin, warm and comfortable. The heat radiating from the body in front of him drove away the discomfort of the cold wood at his back and the phantom pain from the brands.

Cas reached forward, tracing the lines of the brand on the top of his right shoulder with a steady finger. “And you don’t have to give me your body, let alone your soul.”

Their eyes met and Dean felt a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. “Fair enough.”

His fingers dug into Cas’ hips, the pale skin soft beneath his grip. Everything was quieter, slower. Their first kiss of the dream wasn’t like the one he’d watched in the mirror the time before, raw and savage. His lips slipped against Cas’ softly, stubble and smooth skin creating a perfect contrast. They were both naked and Dean allowed himself a moment of indulgence to think about a future they might never have. They could get a little house, a fixer upper that they could slowly turn into a home, they wouldn’t need to wear clothing if they didn’t want. They could just get thick curtains to keep themselves hidden from their neighbors. No angels, no demons, no constant hunting. Just them.

He could feel the curl of Cas’ smile against his lips, he’d obviously heard what Dean was thinking. It was bittersweet, these were the things he wished he could have but realized he never would. Then again Cas already came back from death once—

“Dean, you’re over thinking.” Castiel's tone was soft, pleading instead of a reprimand.

Dean huffed a small chuckle. “Happens, Cas.”

“It doesn’t need to happen here. You’re in my care, Dean.” Cas’ fingers were in his hair, rubbing his scalp gently as he pressed himself closer.

Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’ midsection, hands rubbing from his shoulders to his ass in heavy strokes. They kissed again, more heat in the simple contact than there was before. The weight of Cas’ body on him became more pronounced as the angel settled further, their half-hard cocks rubbing together. A low moan shook Dean’s chest and throat, simple pleasures were the reason the world needed to be saved. The sweet feeling of skin on his, of someone returning an embrace. That was why he was doing what he was. To save the world he could endure some pain, have his skin burned and marked, if only he got to keep his angel.

Castiel broke the kiss and held Dean’s eyes for a moment, a smile lifting his features. “You’ve always had me, Dean.”

Dean moaned and brought Cas’ mouth back to his, dragging the angel higher in his lap so he’d hopefully get the idea. Apparently he did because Dean’s fingers were covered in lube when they hadn’t been before and his hand was being led to Castiel’s ass. The mood here was decidedly different. Everything was different. Last time Castiel threw him down and claimed him, fucked him so thoroughly he was coming all over himself when he woke up. But this? This wasn’t a claim, this was… fuck this was making love.

“I’m glad you understand, Dean.” Their lips barely stopped touching, even when their kisses ended.

Dean could feel the muscle loosening, his middle finger slipping in far more quickly than normal. “Getting’ impatient, Cas?”

The angel chuckled and sucked Dean’s lower lip, dragging his teeth across it before letting go. “You bring out the worst and best in me.”

Dean smiled as he dipped his head down to kiss and lick Cas’ neck. There was no need to say the feeling was mutual, Cas was already _inside_ his head. Kisses and licks were traded across their sweating skin, lazy heat building like a southern night turning to morning. Dean added a second finger, the angel’s body accepting him eagerly. The slick heat almost made him want to be impatient, but it was difficult to care about the time it was taking when Cas was giving little kitten licks to the brands on his shoulders. His scar throbbed insistently, the tips of the fingers glowing out of his peripheral vision.

Cas’ hand fitted over it, the pulsing and need from it sated. Dean could feel the searing heat of Castiel’s grace pushing against his soul through the anchors branded on the scar. The words of Jimmy Novak echoed in his mind _kind of like being chained to a comet_ but somehow it didn’t seem right. Comets were cold, icy. This was consuming, burning him on the inside. It was less like a comet and more like sitting near the edge of a supernova. His entire body stilled, Castiel so close, his soul reaching out. He wasn’t aware of his eyes having been closed, but when he opened them the unearthly sight of glowing white eyes and veins greeted him. There was something disturbingly beautiful about seeing Castiel’s grace pushing away the most human parts of him.

Emotion flooded through him, breaking into him like a hailstone cracking someone’s windshield. Even without being able to see his pupils he knew Cas was looking at him. His throat locked up as he opened his mouth to speak. Sometimes he forgot just how inhuman Cas was, how powerful and the fact that he _chose_ Dean. “Cas, I…” He wanted to say it, but somehow even now he couldn’t bring himself to.

Cas smiled, his other hand sliding up to cup Dean’s jaw. “I know, Dean.” They kissed again, soft reassurances pressed into Dean’s mouth with agonizing care. When Cas pulled away Dean leaned after him, trying to catch more of the relief he still didn’t truly feel like he deserved. “You’ve given me your soul, Dean, I could never doubt your love for me.” Dean nodded mutely, his brain still not quite catching up on the finer parts of having a conversation with someone. Things such as, well, talking. “Now, if you don’t mind.” Cas moved his hips, pushing Dean’s fingers further in and everything snapped back into place.

“Yeah, yeah, right.” Dean smiled weakly, trying to move past the painfully sappy romance and onto the more physical part of Cas’ dream visit.

Finding Cas’ prostate wasn’t difficult, having sex with someone a few dozen times tended to make the sweet spots easy to hit. The slow, crawling pace that they’d set picked up, Cas’ eyes closing as his mouth opened and he breathed little _oohs_ and panted Dean’s name. The grip Cas had on his shoulder only tightened as he continued and inserted a third finger, the angel having enough forethought to mojo more lube into him. Cas was rolling his hips downward in little stilted motions that made Dean ache to be inside him, to feel him tight and warm around him.

“Dean, I’m ready quit procrastinating.” Dean chuckled as he pulled his fingers out and took himself in one hand. Impatient was definitely the right word. Just as with his fingers he was slicked up with little more than a thought.

He slipped in, arms wrapping around Cas’ waist as he was taken in slowly. Their foreheads were resting together, eyes locked and Dean felt like the longer he stared at the white, flaring light that he might go blind. Everything in him demanded he shut his eyes, but he refused to comply. He bottomed out and groaned lowly, face warmed as his lover panted harshly over his skin.

After a moment of adjustment Cas began to move, hips undulating almost like he was dancing as he set a very pleasurable pace. Dean licked and kissed across the angel’s neck and collarbone, chasing trails of sweat with his tongue. The faint light of grace in Cas’ veins drew Dean’s attention, his tongue tracing paths over every one he could reach. The light of the candles was outdone, dark blue reflecting cool instead of warm as the flames of the candles seemed to dim around them.

Dean’s hands kneaded the muscles in Cas’ back, sliding down to grab his hips as they rocked. Cas’ hands framed his face as he was pulled into a demanding kiss. The tone of the dream was changing as the kiss went on, the candles were flaring almost dangerously and it made Dean flash back to the séance at Pam’s just after he’d crawled out of his own grave. Cas’ veins were flaring under his skin and his eyes were glowing impossibly bright. Suddenly Dean was shoved onto his back, the headboard disappearing in favor of more mattress. Both of Cas’ hands relocated to his chest where his nails dug in. He was practically snarling down at Dean as he rode him harder.

This was what fucked him the last time. This was the claim. “You are mine.” Dean’s breath caught in his chest as he listened to Castiel speak. The low rumble of his voice was overshadowed by sleek, whispering edges. Instead of the one voice it was like he had five, all pushing to say the same thing. Some of them were soft, some were feminine, another sounded even deeper than his normal one. “I will burn it into your flesh, carve it into your bones. It will not matter where you are, when you are, who you are with, you will belong to me.” Dean could see why angels inspired awe and terror. Whatever he’d expected of Cas’ true form, his true voice, it wasn’t this. He was stuck, pleasure still coursing through his body as the angel rode him. If he hadn’t been able to see the authoritative captain before, the one who ordered angels on a battlefield, he could sure as fuck see it now. “Say it, Dean.”

“I’m yours.” It slipped past his lips before he even made the conscious decision to answer. The blaring white of Cas’ eyes began swirling with softer colors. Dean desperately wanted to sit up and pull Castiel close, bury his face in the crook of the angel’s neck and let him take whatever he wanted. But Cas’ hands wouldn’t let him, he was held down against the bed and the most he could manage was shifting and bucking into the downward roll of Cas’ hips.

Maybe this was how he’d come to find faith, staring in the face of a possessive dominating angel riding him in a dream because his physical body was in too much pain. Surrendering his soul to said angel just to keep another one out of his body. Though, as terrifying as Castiel was, Dean didn’t actually fear him. This was Cas, he trusted him, he knew him. Cas would never hurt him.

The angel smiled down to him, affectionate while not letting up in his frenzied pace. His fingers kneaded pleasantly into his chest, left hand trailing off to finger the brands on his right shoulder. “For your pain and sacrifice, I will cradle your soul eternally and I will personally show it every pleasure I’ve had the privilege to learn in my existence.” Dean was so close and Cas talking like that did _not_ help.

He wasn’t sure how he’d be able to cope now, knowing that Cas had different voices and that his veins could be seen through his skin like they were filled with starlight. From then on he’d always hear the other voices when Cas spoke. He would hear the smooth feminine voice when he was pleased and the booming, thunderous baritone when he wanted to show his power. Forget just plain talking, though. The real hazard in this knowledge was the pleasured moans and grunts that he got to hear in a whole new way. Dean didn’t much care about planning marathon sex when his skin was healed, he wanted more of this.

Cas chuckled above him, the air shaking around them as he did. “You’ll get everything you want, Dean.”

And that was just _it_.

The chopped light of the panic room blinked across his line of sight as he woke. A pleasant, rather than searing, heat was turning him boneless, an orgasm caused by the dream leaving him slightly buzzed feeling. He settled into the pillows and groaned in displeasure as the pain came back, ten times worse than before. “We really need to get me a bottle of somethin’.”

“What should I pick up?” Dean felt foolish for being startled when he heard Cas’ voice. Of course Cas would be there.

He cleared his throat, raw and painful from prior screaming, and set eyes on the angel. It was somewhat disappointing not to see the glowing white with the tiny patterns of colors splayed across. “Uh, just whatever the strongest thing is that Bobby’s got upstairs. We’ll pay him back later.”

Cas nodded and sat down in front of him on the cot, one hand reaching out to touch his stomach. “We’ll do your midsection today and start on your legs. The brands will be few, but I’ll be carving more of your bones.”

Dean nodded, already wanting to hurry up and be done with it.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean seemed more agreeable with alcohol in his system, though that was usually true. Bobby had hidden a bottle of what he tended to call _rot gut_ in one of his desk drawers and Dean was content to drink from it deeply. Castiel looked him over and considered where to begin. The iron would be used, but the main focus would be in his bones, promises of protection inscribed and met to the best of Castiel's ability. His name would also be placed on Dean's body once more, right across the abdomen as indicated. A flush of selfish desire was running through him at the thought, of the evidence of Dean's submission for everyone to see. Most of the session would be focused on everything beneath. Putting the bulky lines of ancient script into the surface of his bones held a different level of intimacy. Humans would never see it, but no angel could ignore it.

It had taken nearly two hours move around Dean and take the pillows from under him so they could be washed. New ones were wedged in as gently as possible, but it was a moot point when even turning to the side brought pain. Though it had seemed to reach a point where Dean could ignore it, the sharp ache no longer individual points so much as just blind and all over. Castiel was grateful that the ritual was finally coming to a close. He'd yet to tell Dean that he would require at least six weeks of heavy bed rest before he could even think of leaving the house, even longer before he could return to active hunting. If he was honest, he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. Somehow he could already hear Dean yelling at him.

“I think you'll be pleased to know the ritual is almost through.” He picked up the iron, the metal twisting around in a way not too dissimilar from his stomach. They'd start with the midsection and work downward.

Dean groaned and let out a heavy breath. “Thank God. How long am I gonna be out for?” Castiel tried not to fidget, rolling his right sleeve further up his arm. Behind him Dean shifted, hissing as he tried to angle his head as much as possible. “Cas? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, of course.” The metal began to heat in the flames and Castiel tried to concentrate on that instead of on Dean's gaze boring a hole into the back of his skull.

“So answer me, then.” His tone was short, demanding a response.

Castiel set the branding iron down and looked back at the hunter, an odd twinge of amusement mixing in with his nerves. Dean was laying against the pillows, his head hanging off the back of them so that from his perspective Castiel would have been upside down. After a beat Castiel looked up toward the fan. “Six weeks of confined bed rest.”

He was sure the only reason Dean didn't shoot up off the cot was because of how much pain he was in. “You're joking.”

Even though the words were calm, his voice even, Castiel knew the panic behind them. Dean wasn't a man that could sit around doing nothing, it simply wasn't possible for him. “And at least another month after before you should attempt any work in the field beyond simple interviews. No combat for another three weeks after that, just to be sure.” Dean closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. “I'll go with Sam on whatever hunts he finds, I assure you he won't be left unprotected.”

The hunter picked his head up, muscles of his jaw bulging as he ground his teeth together. “Let's just get this over with.”

The matter was closed, even without the refined skill for conversation his friends had, he knew that much. Guilt was creeping into him, starting low in his stomach and working its way outward. For the first time he hesitated picking the iron up. It needed to be finished, though, no matter his own feelings or however long Dean would be laid up in bed. Castiel knew better than any that the ritual wasn't something done on a whim and could never be left half-finished. If only he had the same practice at burying unpleasantness that Dean did.

The metal glowed orange again and pulled him from his reverie. Dean took a breath to brace himself as Castiel held the brand above his stomach. When he pressed it down Dean grunted, head falling back against the pillows once more. The muscle and fat in his midsection and legs would ensure that this set wasn't nearly as painful as the previous, though the comfort rang hollow. The thick lines of Enochian script burned smoothly and Castiel took a second to look after the brand was pulled away and reformed.

It all seemed to go by quicker, one letter turning into the seven of his name in undeniable clarity and claim across the hunter's waist. Small drops of blood welled up at the edges, pulled down paths tracked by sweat. He looked over the rest of Dean's body, the iron reheating at the side of the room. The next symbol was going to be placed rather precariously, but it was the symbol of Castiel's station as an angel and therefore one of the most important. It was actually composed of two parts, the first being a very basic approximation of wings. The main contour started low in the center and curved up on either side before slanting back down. Three lines fanned downward on either side to represent primary feathers. The first letter of Castiel's name would sit above the middle and would be done second. Not only was the marking complicated, it was going to be placed over Dean's pubic bone. Angels had no qualms about awkward advertising.

Castiel grabbed the iron out of the fire and looked at Dean briefly before placing it low on his body. Worry pooled in the hunter's green eyes and he swallowed roughly. When the metal met his skin he grit his teeth and restrained a shout, nails biting into his palms as he clenched his fists.

Dean practically growled at him when he pulled the metal away, chest heaving. “Fucking warn me if you're gonna put hot shit anywhere near my dick, got it?”

Castiel willed the brand to twist into the proper shape and nodded. “That sigil is only half done, I'll finish it once the iron reheats.”

Alcohol sloshed around the bottle in Dean's hand as he grabbed it roughly and took a long drink. He panted as he swallowed, looking down at the fresh mark with a groan rattling his throat. “I fuckin' hate you, you know that?”

Castiel chuckled softly, some of the previous tension alleviated for the moment. “You don't mean that.”

Dean took another drink, muttering under his breath indignantly. The iron glowed again, probably too soon for Dean's liking and Castiel walked back over to finish up. When it was done Dean glared, looking down at the broken skin. “Screw whoever thought it was a good idea to put one there.”

Castiel shook his head and sighed, setting the brand back in the fire. He knelt beside the cot next, hands splayed wide over Dean's thighs. Constant wincing pinched Dean's expression, the last of the bottle finished off as grooves of text etched themselves into his bone. They were promises of eternal protection, the kind of vows only an angel could make. He swore on his own life and grace never to let Dean come to harm, even if he had to resort to wielding him to prevent it. With every stroke of Enochian he could feel his connection to Dean's soul grow stronger, flares of light breaking through the bandages over the hand-print. He had the feeling that when everything was done he'd have a hard time looking away from the gleaming of Dean's soul reaching out from his skin. Already there was a faint trickle of living energy, augmenting the rather steadily declining power of his grace. It wasn't the same as being tied to Heaven, but it would be reassuring to be able to fly without getting winded.

It took more effort than he'd have liked to carve both of Dean's legs at once, but he was beginning to let his impatience get the better of him. Not like either of them would complain at getting done sooner. The iron was bright and insistent in the side of his vision, they weren't done just yet.

He held the handle and looked at the newest symbol as it heated a little further. It would be placed just under Dean's knee, it was one of the oldest symbols he knew for holy. Most of ritual was exact, but certain parts could be tailored to the individuals involved. Hence why Dean was marked as belovèd and now holy. Whenever he knelt, the ground would feel his anointment. Perhaps human company had left Castiel prone to fits of pride, but if he were to feel any measure of vainglory for anything, it would be Dean.

If he did this properly, these two could be done without reheating the metal in between. He struck Dean's skin quickly while the metal still had a faint glow, willing himself not to remember the sound of another stifled yell. The second was completed just as quickly, blood falling down only to get caught on short hairs, stopped prematurely. He formed the metal into its final shape and set it back on the fire.

“Only one more, Dean.” It wouldn't take long for the metal to glow, harsh corners of the inscription for righteous starting first, then working toward the center.

“Shoulda made you take me to dinner first.” Dean's was voice a low grumble, his skin ashen and prickling with sweat all over.

“Are you hungry?” It wouldn't surprise him, Dean hadn't eaten anything recently. This should have been something Castiel thought of, Dean was human—

“It was a joke, Cas. Don't think I could keep anything down right now.” The answer didn't sit well, but Castiel accepted it anyway.

The brand was ready and pulled free. Dean watched it float through the air and then down toward his feet. Castiel pressed it into the arch without warning or preamble, wincing as Dean's toes wriggled. Just as with Dean's knees Castiel did these in quick succession. He pulled back and looked across the body he'd remade and now reforged. The marks of his name, both spoken and unspoken, his writing on the skeleton. Dean was his, irrefutably and entirely.

“For time and all eternity.” He said it under his breath, looking down at Dean's feet again. _You walk the path of righteousness._ Somehow it almost seemed humorous.

—

If Dean thought the shit down in the panic room sucked, he probably should have thought about the fact that the only shower available was up-fucking- _stairs_. Cas was great, though, a little too great. He carried Dean like he was nothing, cradling him gently. Even if there was some serious pain going on keeping Dean from doing something as simple as walking, being carried bridal style was a little much.

It only got worse from there. Not that he wasn't grateful, but he felt weird being waited on hand and foot, especially knowing that it would continue on like that for six goddamn weeks minimum. Cas set him down on the toilet and started the bath. It looked like he was aiming for lukewarm, which was just fine. Dean probably wasn't even going to be able to drink hot coffee for a good while after this. The tub filled slowly, a couple pipes making a worrisome noise he'd have to tell Bobby about when him and Sam got back.

Except he couldn't. Because Bobby couldn't come upstairs and Dean couldn't go downstairs. Awesome.

The bandages came off next, Cas' fingers deftly working the lengths of fabric off with little effort and little pain. Then the honeymoon suite treatment started again. Cas hefted him up and maneuvered him into the tub pretty damned easily for how tight the space was. He groaned when the water hit his skin, cool enough to be comforting without being too cold. A funny little smile quirked Cas' mouth, but Dean didn't have the energy to ask about it.

When he fell asleep he didn't know, but there wasn't a dream this time. Instead he woke up to Cas refilling the bathwater and feeling around the edges of the hand print.

“What's up?” His voice sounded too croaky and weak and he didn't like it.

Cas just gave him this look, blue eyes melted into warm affection. Dean couldn't breathe for a moment, then Cas looked away and picked up a bloody rag, probably what he'd been using when Dean passed out. The bath passed in silence, nothing more than the sloshing of water and the already familiar dull, burning ache playing out.

Either he was more tired than he thought, or Cas was knocking him out now that the ritual was over. He woke up with fresh bandages and a mattress under his back. A noisy bird sat just outside his window and he wondered if he was too crippled to grab his pistol. The hinges squeaked on his door as it opened and Sam peeked inside.

Dean smiled and tried to sit up before literally every part of his body protested in the form of a wave of excruciating pain and nausea. “Hey, man, I'd sit up and talk to you, but I'm kinda stuck here.”

Sam laughed and stepped inside, pulling a chair to the bedside and sitting astride the back. “Yeah, Cas told me you'd be out for a while. How are you feeling?”

A shrug was attempted with about the same result as before. “Dude I'm gonna go fucking nuts.”

His little brother laughed again and shrugged, probably just to spite him. “You signed up for it.” They were both quiet for a moment, then Sam spoke again. “So, uh, this ritual, what happened?”

Dean sighed and lifted his arms, moving them two inches or so further away from his body and counted it as a victory. “He branded me like fucking livestock, dude. It was brutal.”

“Yeah, looks like it.” Sam inched toward him with one hand headed for the end of a bandage.

“Don't you dare you little bitch. You can see them when they're healed.” Dean wasn't exactly in a position to make demands, but he hoped his voice sounded authoritative enough to get the job done.

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes, settling back into his seat. “Whatever, jerk.”

—

The second time Cas changed his bandages when he was awake for it, he insisted they be alone. Not that Sam hung around long enough to see the reverse tramp stamp of wings just over his dick, but apparently Cas didn't even want him to see the very limited view he'd gotten before. The moment they all came off Dean could see why. Cas' fingers hovered just over his skin, the air shifting under them like someone opened a freezer and was letting all the cold air out. He sighed with relief and gasped as it surrounded his entire body. It stayed there, just wrapping him up in a soothing chill that made him forget about the pain for a few minutes.

Then he felt Cas' lips. They were warm, but not uncomfortably so as he moved to every brand individually and kissed it. Every once in a while he'd murmur something soft that Dean didn't understand, but there was the feeling that the level of intimacy here should have been reserved for some place holier than this.

Dean simply laid there and breathed through it, his chest expanding and filling with a warmth he didn't even think he was capable of having anymore.

—

By the time Dean was on his feet again he'd had the chance to memorize every line of dialogue from the first four seasons of Dr. Sexy _and_ he was getting kinda good at conversational Spanish if Fedella's secret affair with Adelio's bastard son was any judge. Cas had made good on his word, putting absolutely everything on standby to watch out for Sam while Dean stayed behind. It still didn't sit right with him, but if it had to be anyone he was just glad it was family. That was what Cas was, after all, bullshit with kinky sword rituals aside.

He limped down the stairs and whimpered as he hit the bottom, looking up at Bobby as the old hunter dozed off on a dusty book. As much as he wanted to make fun of him, a three minute limp down one flight of stairs had a way of knocking the humor right out of a guy. Bobby watched him head into the kitchen and rifle through a cabinet before coming across a can of ravioli. He opened it and forked it down cold, too hungry and impatient to bother with the microwave. There was low grumbling from the living room behind him, but Dean was too busy thinking of ways to build an altar to Chef Boyardee for making their mass-produced canned crack precooked.

There were only a couple bites left when Sam and Cas returned. Sam raised an eyebrow and chuckled before making his way to the basement. Dean finished the rest of the can and tossed it in the trash with his plastic fork, limping away across the hardwood floor. Cas touched his back to try and help, but Dean batted his hands away, grumbling about doing it himself.

“Quit your belly achin' you big baby, at least you _can_ limp!” Bobby took another drink of coffee and turned a page in his book.

“Can it, iron sides!” By the time he reached the stairs he was pretty sure his right foot was bleeding, so he gave in and let Cas carry him up, just not bridal style. Not in front of Bobby.

—

Dean was surprised he got any sleep at all during the last week before he could finally go back out. There was still some lingering soreness, but it was nothing like before. Eventually, though, exhaustion won out over excitement and he flopped down on his bed.

He rolled over and threw an arm around Cas, shuffling closer and nuzzling the dark hair the base of the angel's skull. Cuddling was something he missed. As much as Sam might tease him for it, it really was. Cas sighed softly and settled into him.

“You haven't been here in a while.” Dean tried not to sound petulant, but it didn't work.

Cas chuckled and turned over to face him. His eyes were white, exploding out in living shafts of grace that also poured out from his throat when he spoke. “I've been busy, my apologies.”

That was another thing Dean missed, the voices. They were all there, all whole and sweet just like he remembered. Dean moved to his back and Cas followed, straddling his hips. The light reached out to him, bits of it breaking off and skittering out like sparks. He surged up and pulled Cas down into a kiss, swallowing the light whole.

Cas pulled back and held his face, blocking out everything else in the room as he spoke. “All you've given will be rewarded, Dean. I swear this will not have been in vain.”

Dean nodded and kissed him again. “I know, Cas, I know.” _I trust you that much._


End file.
